


with hey, ho, the wind and the rain

by ameliathermopolis



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Love Confessions, M/M, Resurrection, spoilers through episode 81, this is basically an excuse to write vaxlan and meditate on how bards can learn ressurect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 23:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10604640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliathermopolis/pseuds/ameliathermopolis
Summary: The others told him he’d died. He had, Scanlan agrees, but not from the spell.  Not from Raishan. Not from the ice and cold and wind. No. What had killed him was the sound of bones cracking on stone and wings desperate to fly being turned into a broken, bloody mess, with the scent of burning feathers in the air. He still sees Vax’ildan falling when he closes his eyes, but the sound of it is with him always, like a song he’s unable to get out of his head."Why did they save me and not him?" Pike was holding him and trying to speak even through her tears, trying to warm him with her armor as he shivered with cold.“I tried,” she had sobbed. “I tried, but I couldn’t reach him.”"That’s Pike," Scanlan thinks. "That’s Pike all over. Trying her best no matter the circumstances. Now it’s my turn."





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the lovely Mac/thegoldenlocks on tumblr and inspired by Ari/impossibledreams' excellent Pikeval resurrection fic, as well as her constant cheerleading. 
> 
> The song I used for Scanlan's ritual is "Good Enough" by Evanescence, proving that I am still emo trash for Amy Lee after all this time. 
> 
> I wanted to play a bit with close third person narration on this one, and I think it turned out as well as I intended it to be. I took a long break from writing this one for a while - this was supposed to be a Christmas gift at the start - and I think it's finally ready to see to light of day. 
> 
> I hope it was worth the wait.

J’mon Sa Ord’s brass flute feels cold and heavy in Scanlan’s hands. He knows that he will never know what it sounds like now, though he is sure anything produced at the hands of a dragon, in a city like Ank’harel, can only be beautiful. Scanlan has wanted to snap it in half over his knee more than once since they’d settled back in the mansion, but before he is anything else in life, he is a musician, and he knows that the instrument is almost never at fault, never the one that is useless.

 _Useless_. The word echoes in the back of his mind, getting louder the longer his fingers run over the metal flute in his lap. _Yes,_ he thinks. _It is not the fault of the instrument if no one is willing to play it._

The others told him he’d died. He had, Scanlan agrees, but not from the spell. Not from Raishan. Not from the ice and cold and wind. No. What had killed him was the sound of bones cracking on stone and wings desperate to fly being turned into a broken, bloody mess, with the scent of burning feathers in the air. He still sees Vax’ildan falling when he closes his eyes, but the sound of it is with him always, like a song he’s unable to get out of his head.

 _Why did they save me and not him?_ Pike was holding him and trying to speak even through her tears, trying to warm him with her armor as he shivered with cold.

“I tried,” she had sobbed. “I tried, but I couldn’t reach him.”

 _That’s Pike,_ Scanlan thinks. _That’s Pike all over. Trying her best no matter the circumstances. Now it’s my turn._

They’re all huddled in the main sitting room, the same as they had when Percy had died, and Scanlan tries not to think about how many more times they may have to perform such a wake before Raishan falls in her turn. He had dozed, rested as much as he was going to. He’s never been able to move with shadows like the twins, but being in his own house, after a fashion, has its perks when one is trying to sneak.

Picking up Vax without disturbing anything is awkward. He’s all limbs, long arms and legs that rebel against every position Scanlan places them in. Scanlan knows he should ask the others for help, that there is no shame in admitting that he cannot do everything himself. Even so, he can’t shake the feeling that he _must_ do this himself, and even if he fails, he must try, at the very least. Scanlan shifts Vax in his arms so his head is resting on his shoulder, his feet still dragging a little on the ground, and though Scanlan is not a very strong gnome, he finds Vax’ildan is not so heavy now.

There is no sound of following footsteps as he crosses the foyer to the glittering purple entryway, and the mansion door closes with a soft click behind them.

They’d stopped in the forest outside Vasselheim. It was Vex’s idea to bring him to Duskmeadow. To Her. None of them had wanted to, of course. They all wanted to bring him home, to their own temple beneath Whitestone, or even the small chapel to Sarenrae in Greyskull Keep. What they wanted, however, was of very little consequence, and they all knew the depth of Vax’ildan’s devotion to his Queen. Every soul has an anchor to this world, and Vax’s can’t be found within the walls of Whitestone.

Scanlan prays, though he knows not to whom, that this will be close enough for the Raven Queen to hear. The time shift from Emon to Vasselheim is disconcerting even in the best of circumstances, and where Scanlan expects there to be broad daylight, he finds only the moonless darkness that just precedes dawn. Perhaps that is just as well. Perhaps this desperate act is best performed in the dark, with only the stars as witness.

He finds a soft patch of heather to lay Vax down in, the purple flowers cushioning his head. For half a heartbeat, Scanlan looks at him and forgets to see death. His skin is only just fading to gray, his body only recently cold in death, but his lips and cheeks still retain a hint of rosy pink, his eyes closed as if in a deep sleep. For one moment, Scanlan puts his hand on Vax’s chest, half expecting it to rise to meet his palm. It doesn’t, of course, and the wishing it would hurts all the more.

Scanlan sits behind him cross-legged, Vax’ildan’s head in his lap. The forest is still around them, as Scanlan starts to twist his fingers into Vax’s long, dark hair, straightening and braiding back pieces that have grown untidy. In the back of mind, he notices that even the birds are quiet, as if standing in vigil with him. _It is just like when you learned to heal_ , he thinks. _Remember what mother always said. Magic is really very simple. You just have to want something, and let yourself have it._

“I used to make fun of bards who only sung of love. Did I ever tell you that?” he asks, not expecting an answer. Even in the silence of the forest, his voice isn’t loud or oppressive. It’s presses instead of breaks. “I used to laugh into my cups at their songs of longing and passion, of feeling that could drive one mad with its terror and tenderness. None of that ever made any sense to me. Now…” Scanlan laughs under his breath and looks down at Vax’s still face, fingers still running through his hair. “Now I know that every word is true. You are becoming more and more like your patroness, you know. All of your blessings have a shadow of curse about them. Listen to what they have done to me, Vax’ildan.”

Scanlan does his best not to think too hard about the music. It’s an instinct pulled from his earliest days with Dr. Dranzel’s troupe. Once you worry too much about the individual notes and shifts, you lose sight of the flow, of the overall piece. He does his best not to think about the song even as a spell, and tries to cast his mind back to one of the dozens of times Vax had been lazing about Greyskull after a drink, and asked him for a song. Even if he must appeal to whatever God deigned to hear, Scanlan will not let himself forget whom his voice belongs to in this moment.

 _"Under your spell again. I can’t say no to you. Crave my heart and it’s bleeding in your hand. I can’t say no to you. I shouldn’t let you torture me so sweetly. Now, I can’t let go of this dream, I can’t breathe but I feel...good enough. I feel good enough for you._ ”

It is three years ago in a tavern on the outskirts of Stillben. It is just the twins for now, a blade and a bow (and a slightly smaller bear) looking for adventure. He catches Vex’ahlia trying to knick a gold piece out of his purse. _Leave the slight of hand off,_ he says, her wrist still in his hand. _Words are mightier than blades, at the best and worst times._ He doesn’t catch on that Vax’ildan lifted the smaller sack of platinum out of his back pocket until the half-elf boy is smiling and pushing a mug of ale towards him. _Words are wind, small man._

Vax changes his tune when he sees Scanlan sing to a fetal god under the city and convinces him that it really is a capital idea to try to scratch out his own eyes. _Words have power, and it is the only power worth having in this world. It is harder to wield than a blade, but much more fun._ It is the first time Vax laughs at one of his jokes, and Scanlan feels himself start to tip backwards in preparation for the fall.

“ _Drink up sweet decadence. I can’t say no to you. And I’ve completely lost myself, and I don’t mind. I can’t say no to you. I shouldn’t let you conquer me completely. Now, I can’t let go of this dream, can’t believe that I feel…good enough. I feel good enough. It’s been such a long time coming, but I feel good._ ”

When did he know?

It is a handful of months ago and Scanlan is standing at the top of castle tower, looking down at two figures as they plummet to the ground. One is Vax, crawling away on his hands and knees. The other is a stranger who cannot seem to keep his form, half man, half beast, with his hands on backwards. There is no choice. Later, Scanlan will pretend that he was being noble, that he had to weigh the potential sacrifice before acting. It is a good thing that he is talented liar. He is falling before he can think to stop himself, Mythcarver in hand, more at home in his grasp than any blade before it. His legs buckle beneath him when he lands on the wet grass, but the strike is true, and in the moment the steel cuts through this monster’s flesh, Scanlan understands Vax’s devotion to dagger and sword.

 _All magic users are selfish_ , Dr. Dranzel drones in his head. _Then I shall make my selfishness a weapon all its own,_ Scanlan replies. _My friends. My family. My heart. How dare you try to take these things,_ he thinks as the longsword sinks deeper into the demon’s back. _They are mine. He is mine._ Scanlan falls onto his stomach with a loud groan, his legs and back burning with pain. He looks and sees that Vax is still down, eyes closed and body limp with exhaustion from the fall. He lifts and opens his mouth to sing, an instinct as deep as breathing itself. The healing magic twists around his fingers before shooting across the grass, a flash of purple in the black night, and Scanlan smiles when Vax’s eyes open to see him. _If music be the food of love, play on._

“ _And I’m still waiting for the rain to fall, and pour real life down on me. ‘Cause I can’t hold to anything this good enough. Am I good enough, for you to love me too?_ ”

It is less than a week ago and Vax’ildan is screaming at him to run. The snow is turning to steam around the goristro’s shoulders and Scanlan’s heart is beating like a drum of war against his ribs. He takes a measured step back and plants himself firm before this monster from the abyss that towers ten times his size. _Get to the door! Get to the door!_ The ground trembles as the demon barrels forward, his eyes wild for a spot of purple and gold in all the white. His gaze finds Scanlan’s and locks as a dark, wet tongue licks at a mouth full of yellow teeth. The demon speaks no words Scanlan can understand, but the intent is clear. _Move, little man. Run for your life._ The right side of Scanlan’s mouth pulls up into a smirk, and he opens his mouth to sing. _No. You move._

It is the first time Scanlan sees Vax’ildan punched out of the air in a flurry of black sackcloth and raven’s feathers, and it is not the last. It takes all of his practiced panache and control not to run to him, cradle his face in his hands and sing him back to consciousness. But as his feet carry him to where Grog is feeding Pike and Vax potions to revive them, the latter a little more roughly than the former, Scanlan’s mind drifts to a memory of Gilmore pushing Vax off a rampart, only to rise on his wings for the first time. He halts a good distance from where Vax and Pike are already chatting about Sarenrae’s intervention, and realizes that this is another conversation, another moment, where he has nothing to offer.

Vax flies on the wings of fate itself, and even if his heart lifts with each gust of wind Vax rides upon, Scanlan knows that he is stuck so firmly to the ground. As the snow falls its last around him, he also knows that he has never felt smaller.

“ _So take care what you ask of me, ‘cause I can’t say no._ ”

Scanlan curls forward to press his forehead to Vax’ildan’s, tears he does not remember allowing to fall burning hot on his cheeks. From behind closed eyes, he can see flashes of purple, signs of the arcane, dancing on the echoes of his song as the forest once again goes quiet. The silence wraps around them, pressing ever so gently at Scanlan’s shoulders. He counts his heartbeats and presses his hands to Vax’s chest. _Please. Please, work just this once, and I’ll never ask for it again._

_CAW!_

Scanlan jumps and looks up. The sky has gone black. From beyond the dense leaves of the forest ceiling, there is no more moon or stars to light his vigil. There is only an inky blanket of black clouds. No…not clouds. Scanlan feels his heart jump into his throat as the blackness starts to swirl and circle and come closer, close enough to see feathers and beaks and beady black eyes. A cyclone of birds descends from the sky, twirling as if pulled down by a single thread, but where there should be a crash of bones when it hits the ground, there is only the whisper of silk upon skin.

A woman sits before him, dressed in black.

Scanlan feels the instinct to run start to stir at the back of his mind when his eyes meet hers. Blood red irises stare back at him, alarming despite their softness. There is no mask to hide the pale and wan skin, the circles just under her eyes, the large and full mouth twisted into a half smile. Whether it is a sign of how little she regards him or how much regard she has for Vax’ildan is beyond Scanlan’s understanding.

“It is not my custom to return so unusual a call in person,” she says, “but then again, this is a very special case, no?” There is still magic in the air, swirling notes of purple light that dance up through the treetops, leaving static in their wake.

“What should I call you?” he asks first, all other questions gathering silently on his tongue to wait their turns. 

“Whatever you like, master bard. I have many names, much like you. Nothing so formal, if it would make you more comfortable. Nera will do,” she says. A smile starts to perk up the corners of her mouth as Scanlan stares at her.

“I don’t know how much of my history you’ve been privy to, Your Majesty, but royalty and I tend not to get on.” She laughs at that, a giggle where Scanlan expects a cackle.

“Kingslayer, then?” she asks. “Or Burt Reynolds? Or François, perhaps? The Meat Man, finally cometh? Or…” her voice trails off as her gaze darts to the sword at Scanlan’s hip. When her eyes meet his again he sees a scene out of his own memory in them – four cuts, two wings gone, and one Ghurrix falling in a city of metal and fire. Her pupils go wide, then contract as she focuses on him again, the vision fading. “ _Fiend Carver_.” The words hit him like a blow, ringing with finality and power. “True names have great power, do they not, Scanlan Shorthalt? Bards know that better than most.”

“Is that yours? Nera?” Scanlan asks. The name feels false on his tongue, does not match the image before him. He remembers Vax’ildan’s descriptions of his Queen, of a woman impossibly tall, with thousands of golden threads weaving around her fingers and into webs. Such women, in Scanlan’s experience, exist beyond names like the ones mortals claim.

“No,” she says, crisp and clean and honest. “It was a name given to me, and it suits my purpose.” A story needles at the back of Scanlan’s mind. A tale of a sorceress who wandered to the land of the dead and a god who sought to take her for his own, losing his life, his power, and his crown in the process. A history made legend. A legend made myth. _True names have great power_ , he thinks, _even if no one living remembers them._ He nods, not knowing if he is just pretending to understand, and does not press.

“Nera, then.” Scanlan looks down at Vax’s head, still cradled in his lap. His hair shines where Scanlan’s tears fell and he moves to wipe them away. “Did you know this would happen, Nera?” he whispers.

“It was always a possibility,” she answers. “For all of you, not just him, and not just because of my involvement. He was rushing ahead long before he ever set my mantle on his shoulders, was he not?” She raises her right hand and the glint of gold catches Scanlan’s eye. At first, the rings around her fingers looks like metal bands catching the light. Her fingers twitch and what at first looked solid melts and twists, different strands braiding together and spreading out from Nera’s hand and into the forest around them, until Scanlan can see them for what they are. What little starlight can find them glistens off a thousand golden strings. His gaze goes from her palm to the soft, pale gray strand that hangs limp between her hand and Vax’ildan’s heart.

“A single thread can be made to form many different tapestries, can it not?”

Scanlan does not answer. He stares at the string of fate still clinging to Vax’ildan, each individual strand unfurling from the tight braid as it loses more of its luster. _Gone, then,_ he realizes. _But not lost._

“Am I under your sway as well, Lady Fate?” Scanlan asks when he looks back up at her. Nera’s cheeks dimple as she smiles. 

“No. But not why you think. You think yourself too chaotic, too unpredictable, and too wild for the hands of something as tenuous and exact as fate. However, I have found that this,” she gestures with her left hand from his hair to his feet, “is the opposite of chaotic. In this group of heroes, this family of yours, it is you, and you alone, who are the eye of the storm. Every single piece of you, every detail, is composed, practiced, conducted, and performed with a rigor and exactness even I, with all my webs, feel no shame in envying. Chaos? Oh, no, master bard. You are a symphony.”

There is a moment when neither of them speaks; only the sounds of the forest just before dawn press at the silence. Nera looks down at him, her red eyes soft and calm, and Scanlan can see no lie in them.

“Now, to the point. What do you offer, master bard?”

“What do you want?” Scanlan asks, and at once he knows it is too hasty. Nera laughs.

“Oh, no,” she says, the greens and purples and blues of her hair shifting as she shakes her head. “That is not how this particular game is played, Scanlan. I cannot dictate what you sacrifice. You cannot offer something merely because you feel it’s what the person wants. That would be the same as offering someone their own heart, and that will never do. No real magic can be made that way. You must offer your own, and not expect it back.”

“That may prove to be a problem, Nera,” Scanlan says with a smile that does not reach his eyes. “You already have my heart in hand.” He can see the laugh start to rise to Nera’s tongue, but she does not give it voice. There is a kindness in that that startles him, makes his own throat grow tight when he sees her swallow down whatever words were waiting to be said.

“Then what else would you offer me, for him?” _Anything_ , he prays. _Everything._ He takes that thought and transcribes it into another, keeping the truth and changing the words.

“My hope.” In any other moment, he might have laughed at the way her eyebrows raise, her red eyes gone wide. “I love him, my lady. You must hear that so often, I know, but that does not stop it being true. I have loved him so long, I could not tell you when it started. Every time I look back on it, I realize that I was in the middle before I knew I had begun. People like him are meant to be loved, and men like me…well, we rarely deserve the love we receive.”

Scanlan looks down at Vax’s face, cold and hard and going grey, and a hundred thousand unsaid endearments spring to mind. For half a heartbeat, he feels poetry in his blood, pumping through his heart from the tips of his ears to his toes. It floods his brain with metaphors and odes and sonnets composed in quiet, lonely hours that he has never dared to put to paper or voice. They rise to his tongue, begging to be sung and spoken in impeccable verse. He swallows.

It is opening night of their debut run in Emon. _We are resurrectionists, after a fashion_ , Dr. Dranzel says from his chair by the fire. Scanlan is young enough to still feel small. It is his first night leading the band, and he hears the murmur of the crowded tavern beyond the dividing curtain. The thought of all those eyes on him makes his throat close up, his hands go stiff, every song he has committed to memory since the half-orc found him fishing days old bread out of garbage in a city hundreds of miles behind them, suddenly fleeing from his mind. _How’s that?_  

The goddess of death sits tall before him, and for the first time since seeing her face, Scanlan is not afraid. He thinks of stone and snow and demons, other moments like this one, and knows that now, too, there is no choice. Even with all the paths his thread could have pulled him down, there was never going to be a choice. “If you give back his life, I will give up all hope, all expectation I have ever had of that love being given in return. There is not much of it, and I would cut out my tongue to stop it from betraying my heart, but you know that words are my trade. I know it is not as noble or vast a sacrifice as you must be used to, my lady,” Scanlan says, looking down at his hands, still running through Vax’s hair. “But it is the best thing I can give. It is all I have left that is mine, and mine alone. And if you find it acceptable, it is yours, freely and willingly.”

 _What do we do, young Shorthalt?_ He jumps at the sound of a mug hitting the table and stares at Dranzel. _We sing, we play, we act, we tell stories._ Dranzel smiles, his eyes hidden behind the brim of his hat, bow still poised over the strings of the violin he’s tuning. _Stories of what? Of whom?_ he questions. Scanlan does not answer as he tries to figure out the trick. Dranzel sighs and stands on his feet in front of him. _It is never the here and now. The dead and gone are our charges, and we bring them back to life every night. We remember them, and in that remembrance, is there not a kind of immortality?_

Nera reaches out and runs the tips of her fingers over the gray string of Vax’s fate, the golden web around them fading into nothing. “This is your bargain, Scanlan Shorthalt?” Her voice is a roll of thunder and her eyes, red and shining, pierce when they meet his. Another vision flashes across her face, too quick and blurry for Scanlan to see if it tells of the past or portents some future. When it clears, the hard set of her jaw is enough to tell him her judgment has been made.

 _Five minutes to show time._ Scanlan feels his heart pound in his ears as the members of Dr. Dranzel’s troupe pile together, swigging down drinks and tuning instruments. Dranzel’s hand lands on his shoulder with a thump. _Belief is a powerful thing, my boy. Our art depends on it just as much as the divine do. But this..._ Dranzel laughs and puts his other hand on the curtain they’ve affixed to their mock up of a stage. _This magic we do is beyond anything even gods could dream of._

Nera leans forward and Scanlan finds himself surrounded by her long black hair. Her hands press to his neck and turn his head up so her lips can press to his forehead. Her hair gleams with a dozen shades of purple, green, and blue in the tiny peaks of sunlight just cresting through the trees.

“You may keep your hope, Scanlan Shorthalt,” she whispers. Scanlan feels her voice more than hears it, reverberating through his skull starting from the base of his neck. “It has been harder won than you give yourself credit for.” Her fingers dig into the base of his neck, so solid that Scanlan thinks her nails will spring out to talons. “Thank you for the song, master bard.”

A noise like a hurricane swirls around him. Scanlan blinks and there are only the birds, their feathers falling around him as they lift off back into the sky. By the time his vision clears, the sky is no longer the black of deep night. The stars are gone, with the barest hint of periwinkle and pink at the eastern sky beyond the trees.

Silence.

A minute passes. Then two. Then five.

Scanlan lets out all of his breath in one long sigh. He lifts his hands from Vax’s hair to bury his face in them, his whole body curling forward into a ball. _Stupid_ , he thinks. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. This isn’t your realm. This isn’t what you do. Not good enough, of course it wasn’t good enough._ Still, at least no one was here to see it. That is some small mercy, perhaps.

At least Vex will never know.

Vax’ildan’s intake of breath is sharp and desperate, loud as a bullet in the stillness of the forest. His whole body trembles with a horrible spasm before his head slams back against Scanlan’s lap. Scanlan’s arms move of their own volition, wrapping around Vax’s neck as his body curls forward over his head. He can feel his heartbeat, strong and sure, in his chest, and the realization is enough to make him cry.

“Thank the gods,” he whimpers. Each shaky breath Vax takes is a symphony of music to his ears. “Thank the gods and all the fucking birds, too.” Vax coughs when Scanlan hugs him around the neck, and his hands grasp at Scanlan’s forearms with a disarming amount of strength.

“Scanlan.”

Scanlan ignores him. Every healing charm and spell Pike, Keyleth, and Vex’ahlia have taught him pours out of his mouth in a flurry of song, too fast for even him to understand all the words. The purple notes and swirls of his magic dance on his fingers before sinking into Vax’s chest to do their work. Vax tugs on his arms again, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

“Scanlan,” he says again and Scanlan jerks himself upright at the sound of watery Vax’s voice is. His eyes are full of tears primed to burst down his cheeks and his gaze is sharp enough to cut flesh and soul. “Was that you singing?” Scanlan’s heart stops, sputters, and restarts at double speed.

“How…how much did you…”

“Was that you?” Deception is Scanlan’s first instinct, to feign ignorance is the second. As he looks down into Vax’s eyes, wild and bright and _alive_ again, it is like he is back on a stage of his own making. The moment between the performance and the applause. Dr. Dranzel puts his hand on his back and whispers, once more. _Look upon every exit as an entrance somewhere else. It is all one, Scanlan. Our play is done._

“Yes.” The word comes out of him like a sigh and all of Scanlan’s body tenses. “How much of it did you hear?” He flinches, just a touch, when Vax’s hands reach up to press to his face. The long fingers and wide palms are still so cold, almost blue, and Scanlan has to resist the urge to press them in his own and warm them with kisses. His thumbs rub across his jaw, freezing Scanlan in place, and his eyes focus on his mouth.

“All of it.”

Vax’ildan’s eyes close just before he digs his fingers into the base of Scanlan’s neck and pulls down hard. Scanlan has less than a second to brace his hands on the ground before their mouths meet and he is completely, utterly lost.

It isn’t a pretty kiss, isn’t chaste or quick their last in the City of Brass. Their lips mash together, teeth and tongues getting in the way, and their hands scramble for purchase somewhere on the other. Scanlan doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if it isn’t what he imagined. He doesn’t care if it isn’t what he rehearsed so often in his dreams. And he doesn’t care if every story in every world wants to talk of what kisses and their relationship to true love should be. He’ll take this and be glad for it, any day, because this is the realest thing he has ever felt in his entire life. 

Scanlan’s lips leave Vax’s mouth to press to his cheeks, his chin, his nose, before traveling up to his forehead. His face is wet with tears, and Scanlan doesn’t know which one of them they belong to. Vax’s fingers are still playing with his hair, though the franticness, the need to possess, is gone. Now, there is a kind of lazy exploration, full of the knowledge that there is plenty of time to take.

“Don’t do that to me again,” Scanlan mutters when he presses his forehead to Vax’s. “Never again. Deathwalker, indeed.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Vax says with a laugh that sounds a little less hollow than it probably should given the circumstances.

“Says the man who flew directly at the mouth of a very pissed off dragon and tried to cut out her tongue,” he snorts. Vax opens his mouth to respond, closes it, and sighs.

“That’s fair, I suppose. If it makes you feel better, I learned my lesson well, and you’re far too skilled at lying for your own good." 

“Now, _that_ I did do on purpose.” Scanlan smiles and presses one last kiss to Vax’s forehead before sitting up a bit straighter so he can look him in the face. “Seems like it didn’t do much for me in the end.”

“You fooled me,” Vax says, “right to the end. You wear so many masks, Scanlan. You make it impossible to know you, sometimes.” Scanlan sighs and leans into his touch.

“It’s a work in progress.”

“When did you know?” Vax asks, voice barely above a whisper. Scanlan doesn’t need to ask what he means, and the answer comes to him with the sharp clarity of truth.

“When I saw Sylas cut you down outside the palace in Emon. And you?" 

“Better to ask the sun where it first started to shine,” Vax laughs, and Scanlan bites back a joke about him being almost poetic. “But seeing you face down two demons almost single-handed certainly did the trick. Three, actually, if you count the overgrown house cat. I saw you, you know. After. Just for a second before Pike brought you back to the land of the living.” Vax’s eyes go out of focus to stare at a spot beyond Scanlan’s head in the sky above. “I don’t know what the worse, thinking you had died with me, or knowing that I might never see you again. I thought that about everyone after I realized you were alive, of course, but for that minute, for those second…gods, all I could think of was you.” Another laugh, short and sharp, brings him back to the present moment. “My sister isn’t the only twin who can be greedy.”

“You’re back,” Scanlan says. He puts his hands on Vax’s face to guide his eyes back to his own. “That’s all that matters now.”

“Yes,” Vax’ildan says with a wide smile. “Because of you.” Vax moves out of Scanlan’s grasp just long enough to get into a sitting position. Every bone in his spine pops as he shifts, and Scanlan makes a mental note that a massage might be in order.

“How exactly did you hear me?” Scanlan asks. Vax takes both his hands in one of his, its twin moving back to his hair. “Percy hasn’t exactly been talkative about what he could hear from our ritual, after all. I didn’t think you’d be…present enough to hear.” Vax is quiet for a moment, his thumb rubbing across Scanlan’s knuckles.

“There was a road. Darkness behind and ahead. Mist all around. I was following the stones I could see under my feet, and somehow I knew which way was forward and that I had to walk that way, even if I didn’t want to. It hurt to move on,” he whispers. Vax’s fingers twist deeper into Scanlan’s hair and he bows his head so their foreheads can touch. “Like someone had tied a string under my ribs and was pulling as hard as they could in the opposite direction I was being told to walk. Like they were trying to rip my heart from my chest. That was you, I suppose,” he laughs. “I’d forgotten music could do that. Your voice was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard, even in that darkness.” His eyes squeeze shut and Scanlan feels his hands being pressed in turn.

“It felt like dying all over again, being able to hear you and not being able to call back. I thought I would scream myself hoarse, but nothing would come out. You were the only thing that could fight the silence and just when I dropped down to my knees, determined to crawl my way back, no matter the pain…I saw my Lady.”

“She wasn’t like she normally is, not divine and gargantuan and powerful. She didn’t even have her mask. She was just herself. I don’t know what that means. She held our her hand and told me that I still had work to do,” he says. Fresh tears start to gather in his eyes and fall down his cheeks, happy this time instead of mourning. “She said…she said to turn around and go back. To go back and listen, because this story, my story, _our_ story, wasn’t over yet. She was crying, Scanlan. Imagine, this goddess of life and death and fate, crying for me. For us. And then I was here, and happy to be so.”

Vax is still crying when this last smile spreads across his face. There is more joy in his face than Scanlan has seen in months. It takes years of worry and pain off of his face, the lines around his forehead and eyes smoothing away, if only for a moment. He has never looked more beautiful.

Scanlan loops his arms around Vax’s middle and places his head on his shoulder. Vax embraces him in return, one hand braced at the base of his skull, the other around his waist. “I’m happy you’re here, too,” he whispers against Vax’s armor. It is not quite the words he is looking for, not quite the words both of them dance around saying, but the meaning is all one, and that is enough for now. For a moment, Scanlan lets his eyes close as he leans into Vax’ildan’s chest. It _is_ a good story; this tale of bard who sang with such love that the gods themselves wept and death gave up its dominion. _No one will believe it,_ he thinks, _but that won’t make it untrue._

“Come on,” he says at last, lifting himself up to stand and reach out his hands for Vax to take. “Let’s go home.”

The forest comes alive as they walk through heather and trees towards the mansion, hand in hand. Birds, sparrows and blue jays instead of ravens, flutter about their morning business of singing and worm catching. Small animals scurry away from their feet, into burrows to waiting families. More than once, they tip toe around a breakfasting deer, its fur turned to warm gold in the dawn light. It is a comfortable, ambient silence, and one that Scanlan does not feel obligated to break.

“What do we do now?” Vax asks when they reach the glittering purple door set into the trees. Scanlan looks up at him, at their hands still clasped together between them. Their eyes lock together and in them Scanlan can see a whole world stretched behind the both of them, and another leading out ahead. He turns back to the door and puts his hand on the knob.

“Now? We have breakfast. The rest can wait.” The knob turns under his hand and the door pushes open. _An exit and an entrance._ There is a moment of silence before they are bombarded. Before five bodies collide with them, a tangle of arms and voices that bind the seven of them together as tightly as a spider’s web. It is the kind of silence before a curtain’s rising, between acts of a play, full of possibility and foreboding and hope in equal measure. Scanlan give Vax’ildan’s hand a squeeze and smiles, and they do the only thing they can.

They play on.


End file.
